


The Doctor’s Tales

by AfinaArchives



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Apothecary, F/F, Forsaken, Gen, Zombies, but wlw, femininity as a weapon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22834132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AfinaArchives/pseuds/AfinaArchives
Summary: A compiling of the shortest stories of Doctor Leiuella Staton, Royal Apothecarian to the Banshee Queen’s Dark Rangers.Forsaken; in life, death, and undeath - Leiuella has sworn to never allow herself to hold others close again. Love, any type of the cruelty, only allows for an openness which makes a stab to the back all the more painful. Left to die a hand maid to the oncoming throngs undead twenty years ago, risen by the Scourge, Leiuella enjoys the freedoms unlife allows her.The femininity for which others had seen her as weak before was put to use, and nimble hands sewed embroidered abominations which devastated any army with fearsome haste.She took the broken bones and skin they left her with, and remade herself in her own best image.
Relationships: OC/OC
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1
Collections: The Doctor's Notes





	1. Chapter 1

A compiling of the stories of Doctor Leiuella Staton, Royal Apothecarian to the Banshee Queen’s Dark Rangers. 

Forsaken; in life, death, and undeath - Leiuella has sworn to never allow herself to hold others close again. Love, any type of the cruelty, only allows for an openness which makes a stab to the back all the more painful. Left to die a hand maid to the oncoming throngs undead twenty years ago, risen by the Scourge, Leiuella enjoys the freedoms unlife allows her. 

The femininity for which others had seen her as weak before was put to use, and nimble hands sewed embroidered abominations which devastated any army with fearsome haste. 

She took the broken bones and skin they left her with, and remade herself in her own best image. 

**Begins on Chapter Two.**


	2. Witch: If could have the power to cast any kind of spell, what kind of spell would you cast?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by Ms-Winford.tumblr.com

The doctor thought for a moment, before shrugging her shoulders, aloof to the question. 

“Magic is lesser to me than science, which set and able to be reproduced with each test I run. Magic is something I have found myself incapable of, for I cannot bring myself to trust in anything which is of the unsure.” 

However her eyes turned downcast, and despite how easily the words rolled off of her tongue, it would have been easy for Ms. Winford to know the fellow apothecary was lying. 

She had no heart to her words, after all. 

In truth, there was a spell she wished for but would never allow herself to have. A freedom from the terrible luck which had followed her all these years. At first it was a deep set melancholy which took her childhood from her, years spent somber when they should have been at ease. All too quickly, it had ended, and the grueling work of peasant life had become. What is it to dream, what is it to breathe when each day you grasp and gasp for not even the barest of necessities? 

What is it... to know yourself a burden before all else? 

Death was her freedom from life. For it was no life to live.


	3. Ghost?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by Ash-Summer.tumblr.com

There are many ghosts in this world; they walk among us each day. 

Is it possible to die before you are born? Before life even had begun a noose had been placed around the screaming babe’s neck. Red and puffy, Leiuella’s life was decided for her. 

That she was worth five gold pieces a month, sent to live with her aunt who worked within the Morris Estates. It was a fine home, her mother assured the toddler, packing only the barest of essentials in a small linen bag before tying it to her daughter’s hip. Try as she might, Leiuella could not remember much before that day, when her mother placed her in her aunt’s arms as the young girl cried. 

“It is safer inside the keep, where there is food and shelter.” 

At the age of five a broom had been placed in her hands, and once everything had been tidied a polishing rag as well. Her hands were stained a dark black by the silver, her nose running from the harsh chemical fumes. She was not allowed to move until each of the Lady Morris’ pieces had been made to sparkle; the goblets, silverware, jewels, and necklaces always piled up around her. 

“It will be an easier life, than those of us here upon the farm.” 

By sixteen there had been an attempt upon the Lady Morris’ life, an enchanted necklace laced with poison deadly enough to kill whoever wore the cursed amulet. Hands shaking, rasping for breath, Leiuella lived. Her polishing rag had fallen to the floor, and to bed rest she was sent while clerics attempted to nullify the toxin within her veins. They had called it dimethylmercury, and that even one drop if left in her system would kill her over one month’s time. It was a contact poison, inhaled or put upon the skin, clear and without scent. She lived, by some cruel god she lived, and for living - was elevated to personal servant. Whatever metals came to the Morris estate, Leiuella was the first to inspect. She cleaned each dish before each meal. She spent each day at their beck and call. Most of all, the Lady Morris had insisted that Leiuella tend to the young Lord Morris’ armor and weaponry. That if an attempt was to be made upon her life, what over her darling boy? He was destined to become a great man, a knight, a scholar. He couldn’t die. 

It was at these times Leiuella’s hands balled into fists, when she bit her tongue so hard she tasted iron. Ezra was a pomp bastard, who despite being the same age had always seen himself as superior. Himself as the one who gave orders, and her as the one who received them. 

“Why is it that I cannot be great?” Barely spoken, busy hands did not stop her mind from seething. “That I am not worthy of stories to read, or equations to solve, or even a dagger to hold?” The closest she had to a sword were her sewing needles, the last gift her mother had given her all those years ago. She hardly remembered the woman’s face. 

She wished she was here now. 

At eighteen Ezra was still called a young man, free of the consequences of his actions. Without fear he would terrorize the kitchen staff, spook the horses with his boisterous noise which he called a laugh, and tromped mud through the entirety of the keep. 

And he thought himself the prince of every woman’s dreams, but only had eyes for one.   
Yes all her life her choices had been made for her, and before even asking Ezra already considered himself her husband in all but name. He followed her about the keep, insisted that only she was to clean his rooms, and took her polishing rag when he went to the arena to joust leaving the young woman with upset task managers and jealous eyes from each of her fellow maids. Leiuella was called a shrew, destined for spinsterhood after two months of this went by. It was easier, perhaps, to think her insane than to think her appalled. “How cruel it is, you would drag such a fine young man down with you. It is a fine match, all things considered. Your mother and father would never fear for their crops again. Think on it girl!” How often her aunt reminded her of ‘her options,’ sent Leiuella often to the furthest reaches of the keep whenever she got a second alone.

With her own thoughts.

With her own breath.

Her own.

Every act of self preservation was seen as a defiance. Every second spent to her own health one stolen. Every time she said no, she was reminded of all the people she supposed she loved who she let down simply because she could not say yes. 

But it was not their choice to make. 

Any thought of living with that pig as her hus… the toxins which kept her bed ridden two years back were not the cause of her retching now. Taking out her sewing kit, she turned the underside of her petticoat towards her and began to stitch. Not caring on if the needles pricked her fingers in her haste, she spoke her anguish the only way she could.

At nineteen she was dead, left in a ditch. A broken leg had called the undead horde to her while she cried out in agony. Ezra running with his mace in hand. 

He had a future, so he had to live you see.   
But in death Leiuella had never been more alive. The ghost which had once roamed the Morris halls gone, and in its place a wraith free of mortal plights. She had swung from that noose they had tied around her neck all those years ago, life choked out of her as the damned tore her apart.   
She cut her long hair short. It did not make her her. 

She tore her heart from her chest, for how treacherous it had been.

She removed the lungs as well, for their inability to breathe when she needed air the most. 

She discarded her stomach, unable to ever let her stand up to other’s anger at her. 

She remade herself, without the worries or concerns of those who said they loved her. The sewing needle moved back and forth, the scissors snipped.

What remained? That was her.


	4. If you could be brought back to life, would you accept?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by Ash-Summer.tumblr.com

The apothecary paused. Her hands which had been furiously sewing a new hem abruptly halted, the steel needle stabbed halfway through the fabric. 

“Do you think me a slave to life? That if I were given the chance I would run back to its cruel grasp? That I would desire to breathe air, to drown, to suffocate? If I was brought back to life it would be the death of me. To chain me to an existence not my own, to imprison me within a stuffy flesh coffin. I refuse such trite thoughts, I refuse to be owned, I refuse to live a life of servitude.”

She looked up towards the elf, golden eyes burning with something worse than fury. It was a deep, heavy, and primal smoldering rage which stood barely contained at the question. 

“I would sooner be a corpse in a grave, than a lady in a glass bird cage.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the ask! Leiuella tore out her heart when she gained agency as an undead, thinking that it had only brought her pain. People in life who she loved had always used her love of them to guilt her, so she feels in death she is free of life’s woes and responsibilities.


	5. Haunted House: Would you prefer to live in the city or the country?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by Ms-Winford.tumblr.com

Leiuella dislikes the city, and looks upon the life within them with disdain.

She hates the people who cause drama in the streets, the way they scream and yell when all she needs to do is get to where she’s going.

She hates the bustling crowds which throw her around, and knock her from side to side.

She hates the interdependence of the city. How everything moves so quickly only through uniformity. There is no room for deviance.

And Leiuella is her own.

The country is quiet. The only sounds around her being those of the animals who hide in the shadows and the stab of her needle as she sews. There is no one who will order her, who will tell her what to do, who could push her around. Alleirae is silent of course, darting in and out of shadows as she checks upon her spiders. Despite their venom, they are each sweet in their own ways, which charms the fallen elf. They spin their webs, catch their prey, and care for their own. 

Leiuella herself prefers traveling with the Dark Ranger in the country, to camp under the stars above and in a moment realizes at this time she knows no fear.

It is liberating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it’s just you, your fake dating GF, the unknown fact that you both fell for each other 20 years ago and are now all of five feet from the girl who saved your unlife, and your fifteen spider dogs.


	6. Refugees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comment Chain Story from Tumblr.

“But the Forsaken-“ the magister was cut short, a cool chill overcoming the dias where the elves and undead stood. Among them were fallen humans, and their own fallen kin; but yet denied entry both groups found themselves at the gates of Quel’thalas. 

At the epicenter of the chill stood a woman, from which a green mist eminated. Her voice, although level, set backs aright with an unearthly utterance. “Have suffered immensely and should be allowed a chance to have that pain recognized, mourning the loss of their home, and friends.“ 

The destruction of the Undercity upon the Battle for Lordaeron left many without home. Those who had never known war beyond that which culminated in their first deaths were civilians - the herbalists, the chefs, clothiers, inn keepers. 

Was this not what had occurred twenty years past, when The Banshee Queen had attempted to strike an accord with the Alliance who turned away their fallen kin? 

Once more, they were Forsaken. 

Coming forward to stand beside her fellow apothecarian, Dr. Staton raised a brow. “Everyone grieves those who are lost. They grieve together. They build again. How?” She asked, “Are you supposed to grieve when you are lost?”


	7. Ill?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The young McCallun offers aid to Dr. Staton following a particularly rough battle for the Forsaken in elven lands. Although not a healer, he has ears and the ability to listen. 
> 
> Sometimes the best thing for someone who is injured is the ability to talk.

“Well,” Leiuella began; “It is odd but not unwelcome to see these roles reversed.”

It had been tough to escape the Dawnspire with multiple alliance armies bearing down from all sides. Still, a few non-combatants had been able to escape the majority of their wrath. It seemed not being a part of the main army had its bonuses. After all, what was one or three lone figures when there was an entire battle going on over the hill?

Well, most of their wrath.

The haste necessary for the non-combatants to make their escape had torn open the doctor’s leg, needlework in tatters and in a great need for repair. Her leg dangled limply off the bed, and as she examined it Leiuella muttered under her breath with a mixture of both disgust and scorn.  
“It seems that I’m a mender in need of mending. If you can fetch me some acrylic thread and curved needles I can fix this in a few hours time Lightward McCallun.”

The two spoke for some time then, about their unlives and troubles. The Lad was searching for his mother, and hoped to reunite his father and her soon. Despite all which had happened, he yet had a childish hope for normalcy. 

And it was in this moment Leiuella felt regret, for teasing him, for teasing Aveleyne, and for teasing Razail for their common injuries which landed them in her clinic so often. Despite the heavy burdens foisted upon their shoulders by adults who should have known better, who should have been better, they were children. 

She had needed kindness when she was in their place. 

And there was none. 

By the shadows she would be better.


	8. A Jar of Pickles?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by Arynella.tumblr.com

Pickles;

“It is the simplest of the aldehydes. The common name of this substance comes from its similarity and relation to formic acid.

If injected into a person, the substance can cause red blood cells to rupture. It can also lead to a condition called acidosis where the person has too much acid in the blood…”

The Apothecary’s quill tapped against the parchment paper, a scowl upon her face. Since the most recent attacks upon Gilneas, there had been a surplus of viscera left strewn upon the cobble stone streets and rolling hills awash in a fog of plague green. There had been casualties on both ends, but where some might have seen a loss the Forsaken were blessed with innovation. While the Val’kyr were few in number and unable to raise all that were slain from both sides of battle, the dead had time. Time to wait, to lurk, to watch tombstones crumble under acid rain.

They had the time to let things sit, the forethought to store things for later.

To let cucumbers sit and stew in their own brine until they be jars of pickles.


	9. Doctor and Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Co-written with Raxxion.tumblr.com!

The journey to Dazar’alor has taken the Sunguard’s troops from the dusty plains of Durotar to the verdant jungles of Zulduzar. So different in sights and smells, it was surely a shame that so many remained within the confines of the medical tents upon the docks. Inside were housed patients who could not be left alone, medical equipment, and a series of contraptions used to keep Pathfinders in their damned cots. Adventurers, and soldiers got themselves hurt on the daily. Each time seeming to come up with an even grander way to achieve a new form of injury. Each time needing another stern talking to about why it was not smart to lick tree frogs or just why it was not generally a good idea to poke a Sand Fury.

No one knew this better that Lieuella.  
No one!

Pounding a skeletal fist against a table, she glowered down at the grey plants. Well, they likely were not grey to the living eyes but to her she could not make hide nor hair of them. Color, use, smell, taste - each of their attributes were a mystery to the Forsaken doctor. They were listed in no tome. They were explained in no tablet. They were out of her reach - and with that her area of expertise.

“Damn it all,” she swore, plucking a flower from the moss growth in the center of her desk. “Well… It is shaped like a star… Star moss?”

There came a rustling behind her, the heavy shift armor not used anymore. It was the clatter of bone upon scale, the shift of leathers as the troll walked; coming to a stop he jingled. With a hood long enough to hide his eyes and ears from sight, not a trace of them to be seen; he looked over the herbs. Crouching down, Ra’zha leaned forward just enough to speak in a soft voice, a quiet voice. Surely being this close Lieuella could see the bandages across his eyes and the carvings upon his long tusks.

“I hea’ ya frustration foam ma cot. Anytin’ I can’na ‘elp ya wit?”

A small ghostly wolf pup peeked out from behind the shaman’s leg with the softest boof and a wag of it’s tail. The small pup had seen her around the Sunguard infirmaries before, and even if just in passing it knew her well. It always behaved within halls of healing; unless however there was something hiding within the shadows unseen. Beloved by the menders; a pup is still a pup after all. Alive or not.

“Ra’zha?” The doctor asked, raising a brow. “It is not often that you are able to leave your bed. Are you sure you are up to anything at the moment?” Curt and swift, Dr. Staton paid no heed to the fact that he might have been in pain. Instead, she paid heed to the possibility of him needing new bandages should his wounds open. Side eyeing the troll, she unceremoniously plopped the flower into his hand, closing his three fingers around it. “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Although I doubt that you would have any knowledge in the area - have you ever seen these plant specimens before?”

There was a moment of silence from the shaman as the fingers of his ungloved hand gently rolled over the flower, bringing it close to smell after. “No. I dun be knowin it, canna see it no moa eida. Dough, it seem famila…” His hand lowered towards the end of his tusks before he smiles. “Ma mudda migh’ kno’.”

As he whispered briefly in his native tongue, one of the four tusk carvings began to glow a soft and ethereal blue, along with a bone laced tight upon his hood. The glow from the bone drips onto the ground with a swirl of soft blue smoke and slowly a spirit arises from it; a druidic troll woman with a mohawk, braids, and a sweet smile upon her face. Her form materializes more than a usual spirit, plantlife even starting to grow from nothing at her feet. The carving continues to glow and its brightness wavers with her speaking, “Ello dere.”  
If ghosts had not been so common in the Undercity, and perhaps also if she was not dead herself, Leieuella might have very well fallen back in shock. However, all she could muster in reaction was a simple huff in recognition of the woman. “Afternoon,” was all which was offered. “I am assuming that you are Ra’zha’s mother? Also, I am very interesting form of spiritual residue you hold! Perhaps I learn more about druidic afterlife at a later date - but back to the point!” Turning towards the shaman, the doctor smirked. “We have a set of herbs which have been collected upon the island of Zul’duzar. It would likely save many lives, and bring favor with certain Loa, if we could properly bring out their uses.”

Leading the two over to the table, or rather dragging the poor patient and expecting his mother to follow, she opened her arms wide. “We have quite the selection after all.”

As Ra’zha was dragged, he winced slightly from a touch of pain in his joints, and moved rather slow with shuffling feet. His mother followed with a hand upon the shaman’s shoulder and a momentarily concerned look was dispelled by a smile from her son. Reaching towards her son, the first thing she did was gently open Ra’zha’s hand and plucked the flower from it. The herb seemed to yet be alive, and it thrived in her hands as if it were still upon the wall of a building. The moss not yet plucked from the world.

She spoke as her son found a comfortable way to sit next to the table, idly looking over the plants with a ghostly gaze. “Dis one be Sta Moss. I heal from some a da spirits and herbalists hea dat dey be used ta brin spirits back ta visit, oa ta send dem to da spirit world if you smolda the leaves.” Bringing the flower closer to her mouth, she began to sing what could only be a Zandali lullaby. The flowers within her hand began to blossom, even going so far as to spiral off of the moss. Expanding, and growing, the moss continued to create more blossoms until it was carpeting the ground! Once she had finished singing, the star moss blossom was set upon the table, a lot of work for such a little plant. “It work with ya emotions, ya feelin’s of life and love.”

Raising a brow, the doctor leaned over to pluck part of the twirling flower from the ground, the star mosses cascade as full as an infirmary blanket. Fingers curling around the soft, spongy plant, her lips curled into a soft smile. “So, a moss that reacts with emotions? I believe that it is true that the Trolls at times have moss growing upon their forms - correct? Able to soak up sweat, rain, and blood it is a natural bandage which purifies. Added with the camouflage most forsaken and farstriders strive for, we could grow viable clothing made from this star moss. With healing, regenerative, and defensive powers - why it could revolutionize the war!” Sitting down, the doctor began her stitchwork. Fingers pulling needle and thread to and fro, she looked up towards Ra’Zha and his mother. “Can you two continue singing?”  
The shaman chuckles, grinning as he whispers, “Can do moa den dat.” Two other carvings upon his tusks, and the other two bones on his helm, begin to glow- one red, the other yellow. The glows drip from the bones and form two more troll spirits, two men, one his twin clad in leathers and the other a much older brother wearing loose clothes. “Mah family can do dat togetha.” A group hug of the spirits to their recently blind family member, and they all start to harmonize and sing a happy song they did when the boys were young.

“Alright then,” Lieuella said as her thread closed the blanket of moss into the form of a cape. “I could actually look forward to this.”


	10. Hex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Death and descriptions of death, but the dude deserved it.

Leiuella was not a woman of magic, and although many would doubt her might the mental capabilities she retained into death seldom left her in a position she disliked.

She let the others think what they wanted, waited for them to underestimate her within the Apothecarium. She let them order her around, and made plans so she wound not have to bite her tongue in death as she did in life. She let them counter each other’s ambitions, watching as they snapped at one another like rabid dogs. She let them think her quiet, and meek. Complacent in her work. Leiuella practiced her craft upon cadavers, learning how bodies of the dead worked and what changed during the reanimation process. She practiced upon the long dead, then she practiced upon the freshly dead. Counting the seconds, measuring her beakers, and being absolute in her calculations. She learned that each organ stops at a different time and perfected different alchemical concoctions could either slow or advance the natural process of decay. That all she had to do was find the right natural enzymes and add heat.

You reap what you sow, the fruits of your efforts laid bare before you; ripe for inspection. How time is used is extremely important. To learn. To rise through the ranks. To be second. To see an opening.

To better oneself.

They thought he had died to the mage’s hex, the way his skin melted so quickly with nothing the medics could find. How his brain turned to mush as his body came to rot. She stood in the background. He begged for help. Then he haggled, pleading for a cure from those who didn’t know what ailed him. Even in undeath, the man who had left her to die had been a coward who was afraid of his own end and willing to sell anyone else out for a false chance at salvation. He squealed.

It was best to wait, she decided with a smug grin on her face watching him spittle black ooze. To see how things carried on. To slip into the shadows. To bide one’s time as wounds came to a rotten feste


	11. Chills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A certain ranger has gone missing in the dark of winter, and although dead there is a coldness which has stricken Leiuella.

The snow fell over Quel’thalas; light but persistent. It was the type of fall which could and would last for days. Blanketing the forests, which she had been told were once a lush ruby, Leiuella could hardly tell the difference between this Elven wood and the Tirisfall she had known in her previous life. All the lands of Lordaeron had been a dark grey, with dense conifers creating a canopy of sharp icicles each winter. Tinkling in the wind, their song was one of alluring danger. The nobles were similar. Dressed in fine tresses, satin gowns, and lace which they would throw out sooner than taking the time to mend it once. Why? They were wolves, and from the weak, they took all. To fix something was to show that you could not get new, and the ability to purchase new goods easily was power. Life was devoid of life, life was devoid of light, and lacking anything which could possibly allow a young woman to move up on her own.

On her own…

The thought brought Leiuella immediate displeasure. Recoiling, she burried her head in her cowl. A snapping turtle lurking within its shell. Little more escaped her than a soft growl however, and despite herself she tried to think of more pertinent things. Such as the Gut Baby’s successful marks in her most recent experiments, the Apothecary gown she was mending, the bits and pieces of fallen human she had collected after the most recent battles with the Alliance which would enhance the Gut Baby.

She was not thinking about the dangers which the Forsaken armies in Quel’thalas faced, and Lieuella was definitely not worried of the wolves which howled in the night. No, she was not thinking about the Forsaken who had fallen, sent to Quel'Thalas under the Queen’s Hand; she did not think of those who perished in battle for an Elven army which seemed to care not. Anastasia Royce and Deathguard Mathias were spared not a single breath in mourning, for who would mourn those already dead when the living’s lives were yet in danger? She did not think of the sheep she kept in a locked barn, or who they waited for. She did not think of that barn or the house attached to it. She did not think of it as a home.

She did not mourn someone who might not return.

Lords and Wolves clashed in the snow, a land washed in grey, and… A friend out there in the thick of it.

Leiuella quivered, but only for the chill.


	12. The Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Banshee Queen’s efforts are harmed by treachery within Horde ranks, the Forsaken are called to leave Quel’thalas.

“It would seem that at least one of you understand how fruitless this moment is.

The Warchief will come collect her dues. You have my word.

I will relay onto her your choice Regent-Lord, and a response will come soon enough.”

Leiuella stood in a secluded alcove of the Sunguard Infirmary, a place where she had now resided a full year.

She had little to no items with her when she came which were not able to be carried upon her back.  
Her tools all fit within her chest cavity.  
Her notes could be burned quicker than she could write them.

Her cane in hand.

Her dog by her feet.

Of course, there were also other things to think of - however impractical. The sheep her partner had kept would cause too much noise. They would no longer be part of the picture. The spiders might yet be able to scurry away with their owners.  
How soon would it be that she would receive orders to leave?

There had been some moments which had brought a fleeting smile to her.

They sickened her now.

For she might have to leave them behind.  
The doctor stayed in that alcove all evening, and did not lecture a certain Dying Sun when he returned from his excursion well past his curfew.  
Silent as the grave.


	13. Overview

Leiuella Staton died at the age of nineteen, her leg crushed by another fleeing human so that the undead chasing them would feast upon her instead. Torn apart, Leiuella’s last moments alive were of rage - a rage which was not quelled in death. 

When Sylvanas freed the Forsaken from the Scourge, Leiuella became a Necrosurgeon; a doctor for the dead. In life she had been barred from the education she had so deeply wanted, her family believing that it was not worth it to send a woman to school because “she’ll just get married anyway.” In death, these societal pressures vanished. All were equal beneath death, and all that mattered was if you could get the job done. Her stitchwork, quick wit, and acuity saw her rising through the ranks of the Royal Apothecarium. What carried her? 

A banshee she had met, days after receiving freedom, she found sobbing. Her body lands away in the fallen Quel’thalas - the ghostly woman wished to fade away and become nothing more. Leiuella tore out her heart, for she had no more need of the wicked thing, which had hurt her so much in life, and gave it to the other woman. 

They promised to survive, and meet again. 

During the Cataclysm Dr. Staton was assigned during the Silverpine Campaign to the Darkranger Duskwhisper. Although sharp as an arrow and quick as the night, the woman’s heart was bold and in battle would often leave her position - blades drawn to enter the fray. Often returning worse for ware, she had needed a healer to constantly repair her broken body. 

If Alleirae had been a worse fighter, perhaps she would have been sent away, but no one could deny that the Darkranger *never let a mark escape her.* 

And so the two became a pair, and over the years grew closer. During the events of the Fourth War, Alleirae and Leiuella found themselves fake dating in Quel’thalas - elves tend to let their guard down when they have something to coo at. The problem? 

Leiuella found herself actually falling for Alleirae when she had promised to wait for the Banshee twenty years ago. 

And Alleirae still held close the ghoul’s heart, given freely, when she was at her lowest. 

During the Phoenix Wars, Alleirae set out to hunt some Worgen, and did not return. Pained and stricken as if her heart was still there - the Doctor was forced to befriend those who she was spying upon. She found herself growing soft where she had only ever bee sharp. She found herself being moved where she had only ever been steadfast. 

It was terrifying, but yet - exhilarating? Making allies? Friends?

But it was not to last. 

During the final battle for The Sunwell (Sunguard Campaign), Leiuella vanished into the night with her papers, in search of Alleirae.


End file.
